


No Going Back

by heeroluva



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Bisexual Character, Bloodplay, Brain Damage, Bucky Barnes Feels, Inspired by Fanart, Knifeplay, M/M, Medical Procedures, Memory Alteration, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Past Brainwashing, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shower Sex, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky struggles with what he's learned, who he is, and who he was. Of course, Steve is along for the ride, and it's not an easy one.</p><p>This work was inspired by <a href="http://stereowire.tumblr.com/post/77263120161/and-maybe-im-too-blind-to-see-the-line-was">this very NSFW image</a>. Seriously go check it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bucky watched entranced as the blood welled with each cut, each pause and move drawing a beautiful flinch before he even began the next cut. For once, he was in no hurry. Instead he rested the sharp metal against the well-muscled flesh, a threat of what was to come before pushing in and slowly creating his mark, the flesh parting easily for his blade as though welcoming it.

When finally done, when his star stood out in stark contrast against the skin of Steve’s back, Bucky couldn’t help the surge of possessiveness. He couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch it, his metal digits stained with blood. As he probed his mark with metal fingers, Steve hissed, creating a strange weight in the pit of Bucky’s stomach.

Bucky walked around Steve’s kneeling form, drinking in the sight of him, prone and not fighting. The steel, the strength of will and conviction was still there, but there was something else too, something dark and hungry. He wasn’t sure why he did it, had no memory of such a thing, but his fingers knew the pattern, working the fastening of his pants open. He’d seen men and women in the dark of alleyways in similar positions, had used such distractions to his advantage, but had never felt this urge himself.

Until now. Some strange part of him wanted this.

“Bucky,” Steve whisper, his voice holding something that Bucky couldn’t recognize, but he wanted more.

It was like a switch was flipped in him. Metal fingers knotted in Steve’s hair, staining the blond locks red with his own blood. Bucky liked it. “Bite me, and I’ll slit your throat,” Bucky threatened as he drew Steve’s head forward, the knife held against his neck in promise. Bucky groaned in unexpected pleasure as he sank into Steve’s mouth, his cock hardening rapidly at the wet heat. Pushing deeper still, he shuddered as Steve gagged, his throat massaging the head of his cock.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched in a way that didn’t ultimately bring pain, didn’t know that he could feel like this.

He needed more.

Bucky’s fingers tightened in a way that had to be painful as he angled Steve’s head further back, giving him better access to his willing mouth, but Bucky didn’t care about any discomfort he might be causing him, didn’t care about anything but his own pleasure. He couldn’t help but watch the way his cock slid between those widespread lips, the way the tears spilled from Steve’s eyes as he held himself deep for long seconds too long, the flush of his cheeks, and his depth of desire in his blue eyes.

Dropping the knife, his hand rose to trace those lips. Bucky held no delusions that the other man was anywhere other than where he wanted to be: the cuffs wrapped around his wrists were nothing special. With a booted foot, he pressed against the bulge in Steve’s pants, shuddering as Steve’s groan reverberated through his flesh.

That was all it took to break the last tether of his control, and he fucked himself desperately into Steve’s welcoming mouth, seeking his release. And finally with one deep thrust, he froze, body shivering as his balls pulled up tight as he emptied himself down Steve’s throat.

As he pulled away, Steve smiled, a satisfied predatory grin as though he’d won something. An image (a memory?) superimposed itself over Steve, a smaller one with a slighter form, his hair longer and lips red. Jerking back, Bucky backhanded him with his metal hand, sending Steve sprawling.

Spitting blood, Steve rose to his previous position, that damned smile still in place despite his split lip.

Fist tightening, Bucky fought the urge to hit him again, but failed.

This time when Steve rose, blood dripped down his chin, and still he smiled.

“Stop smiling!” Bucky yelled.

“Make me,” Steve said, voice rough.

Bucky barreled into him, forcing Steve onto his back as he wrapped his fists around his neck.

As the seconds ticked by, Bucky’s guts twisted in an unpleasant way, and he jerked back with an inarticulate shout. Steve laid there panting for breath, but made no move to rise from what had to be an uncomfortable position.

Turning, Bucky tucked himself back away and picked up his knife, finding the red of the blood, Steve’s blood, no different from any of the people he’d killed with said, strangely fascinating. “What do you want?” he finally asked.

“Whatever I can have.” the words were simple, but their meaning was anything but.

“I’m not who you think I am.” Bucky heard Steve shifting and his grip tightened on the knife as he fought the urge to attack the threat.

“I’ll take what I can get.”

“You don’t want me.” Bucky knew it was true. Steve wanted the memory of him, the person who’d died over seventy years ago, the person he didn’t remember, the hero on the wall of the Smithsonian, and wasn’t sure he wanted to remember if it left him this twisted up inside.

“Get out.”

“Buck—”

“Get out!” Bucky shouted.

The seconds ticked by as cloth rustled, then a small sound that had to be the cuffs breaking, then silence.

Alone with his thoughts was a dangerous place to be these days, but it was better than the alternative.

It’d been forty five days, twelve hours, and thirty seven minutes since the Winter Soldier had last checked in.

For two weeks, he’d holed up in a seedy hotel that only took cash and asked no questions. For two weeks, he’d waited for the call that never came, for his new orders, for his next mission, for his recall, for any sense of direction. For two weeks, he’d healed and slept, but he never dreamed. Not until the last night.

He’d dreamed of blue eyes and blond hair, of nights spent huddled together for warmth, and days full of hunger, but always they were together.

He’d awoken to a name on his lips and remembered only blue eyes and blond hair.

Bucky hated it.

Before this mission, Bucky’s life had been simple. Maybe not ideal to most, but it was all he knew. There had been no choices. Now there were too many. Before failure had meant pain, but now it meant confusion, questions with no answers or questions with answers he wasn’t sure he wanted.

A part of him missed that simplicity, feared this new found freedom and lack of direction; another part of him, a small part that had long been suppressed, reveled in it. There was no protocol for the turmoil that his world had become.

He’d gone to the Smithsonian, found a face with a name, a face that was his but not, a history that he had no memory of, a friendship that should have meant nothing, but called to him. He’d left with more questions than answers. 

For the next week, he’d learned everything he could about the events that had led up to his failure and the events that followed. Everything came back to HYDRA, an entity that he had no knowledge of, yet filled him with revulsion. It was HYDRA who had created him, HYDRA who had pulled his strings and shaped him into the creature he was today, HYDRA who had destroyed him.

Free will was a scary thing when a person had never had it. Even with free will, the easy choice would have been to seek them out, to go back to what he was. But something he’d found that was more true with each passing day was that there was no going back. So he’d made a choice.

With the information that SHIELD had revealed to the world, it had only taken a matter of days (along with a considerable amount of stolen money, not-so-hollow threats, and only a handful of deaths) to find enough information to start his quest.

It was only fair that those who had had a hand in his creation, his care, and upkeep to see his skills first hand. He would no longer be their dog.

“Дикий пес,” one of the scientists spat before Bucky had slit his throat. Better to be a feral dog, than a leashed one Bucky had decided. After gathering all the data he could find on himself, he’d destroyed the lab, the first of many.

He’d noticed his shadow a week later, had waited for Steve to approach. Bucky’s frustration had slowly grown when he never did, not even trying to stay out of sight, always there, always in the way making his plans difficult. Bucky hadn’t exactly been hiding, but he’d been careful to cover his tracks. Not careful enough apparently, or maybe he’d just made his course of action too obvious. The connection between deaths wouldn’t be too hard to put together if someone knew what they were looking for.

Two days later Bucky had gotten sloppy, missed the (in hindsight: obvious) trap. He could blame it on the lack of sleep, the missing meals, but really he was distracted, losing focus. These were never problems that would have happened before, but he was quickly realizing that he couldn’t trust most of what he’d thought he’d known.

It was Steve who’d appeared out of nowhere and took out the gunman that Bucky had missed, Steve who’d fought with him against the guards who appeared just as suddenly. It was almost choreographed, almost as though they’d done this before. Maybe they had.

When the fighting stopped, they’d both stood back to back, panting and surrounded by bodies.

Twisting, Bucky had shoved Steve until his back hit the wall and had pressed his knife against Steve’s throat. “Stop following me!” he’d hissed. Steve had had no shield, no protective uniform and the assassin in him had noted the weakness. A mistake. However, this fight had proved well enough that the other man was not to be underestimated.

“Not going to happen.” There had been steel in Steve’s voice, a determination that had probably made lesser men bend to his will.

Bucky had pressed the knife closer, watched the well of blood against metal, yet Steve didn’t move away from it, didn’t look away. Instead his eyes almost dared him to do it. Bucky had actually considered it, wondering if the super soldier could heal before he bled out. A flash had Bucky strapped down, trying to scream, but choking on his own blood.

Jerking back, Buck had all but run from the image that was still ghosting behind his eyes, the fear and pain.

“You’re welcome!” Steve had shouted after Bucky’s retreating form.

Another four days brought them to the present where Steve couldn’t leave well enough alone, where Steve wouldn’t leave Bucky alone despite his threats and warnings. Bucky couldn’t say what had possessed him to do what he’d done, could barely parse the experience at all. All he knew was that he wanted more.

There were two more people on Bucky’s list. The first was an old woman already dying in a nursing home. He half expected Steve to appear and beg him to reconsider (not that he would have been dissuaded).

Each day brought more flashes, more passing horrors, instances of inconceivable pain that left him sweating and shivering, a gasping mess in their wake. More rarely were the memories of Steve, barely there images of a time that didn’t seem real but were more welcome than the others even with the confusion that they brought as he tried to make the pieces of his fractured memory fit together in some semblance of order.

The deaths that he gave those responsible for what he had become were more merciful than they deserved, but at least he could say that he’d never tortured anyone, never cut into them to see what made them tick (and worse done it while they were aware), to see how long they could hold out against the pain, the heat, the cold. Some of it had been truly creative in a sick and twisted way.

Bucky didn’t want any of it. He longed for the oblivion of cryo sleep. He didn’t want to think anymore. Didn’t want to _be_ anymore.

And worse, the only ray of sunshine in this nightmare had been conspicuously missing for the past week. Buck had grown used to his shadow, annoying as he might have been. He had become a constant in Bucky’s every changing world, not sure where his head would be from one day to the next, what horrors he would relive.

The flashes only happened a few times a day, but they were worse when he was tired, when his focus waivered. He’d spent two days staking out the last man on the list. Word of previous deaths must have reached him because the man practically had an army at his disposal, well-trained men who were paid heavily for their skills and time. The direct approach was out of the question, would give his target time to escape. Bucky wasn’t in the mood for a chase.

The third day Bucky set his plan into action. That’s when things went wrong. Running on fumes, he pushed himself anyway because this was all that matters. When this was over, he would welcome oblivion.

The flash of memory caught him off guard, leaving him frozen and open as a sentry turned the corner behind him. Too lost in it, Bucky didn’t notice until a knife caught his arm. Stupid, Bucky berated himself as the pain barely cut through the fog, letting him dodge what would have been a fatal blow. The man went down quickly once Bucky could focus on him.

The rest was a blur, the deaths not bringing the satisfaction that he craved. Nothing changed.

Captain America might not be a front page story here in Russian, but even out of uniform, especially here where they didn’t get many strangers, Steve made an impressive enough figure that people talked… with the right incentive. Bucky had no destination in mind, but his feet took him to the apartment block that Steve was crashing at. He didn’t think as he climbed through the unlocked window. The sound of running water made him pause, considering.

Trembling fingers rose to tug at the clasps and buckles of his outfit, and finally naked he stepped into the steam filled bathroom. There was no hesitation as Bucky slipped into the small stall and pressed up against Steve’s back as there was barely enough room for the both of them. For a moment Steve tensed, and Bucky reached around to capture Steve’s hands, crossing them against his chest. He was disappointed that his mark was gone, wanted the world to see his claim.

Steve’s head fell back and tilted to look at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He tried to twist around, but Bucky was loathed to let go.

“Bucky, whatever you need. Just say the words.”

Bucky’s arms dropped, his head falling forward to rest against Steve’s shoulder before the other man twisted so they were pressed front to front. Bucky didn’t know what he was doing, why he was here, but he had nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. There was nothing but his own choices. It was almost incomprehensible.

He’d slipped back into the familiar role of hunter, of assassin, doing what he’d been made to do, and could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that he’d been doing his mission. But it was over and done with. There was nothing left. No one left to kill. He wanted the simplicity back.

Fingers touched his hair, and Bucky jerked back, eyes wide and untrusting as Steve froze, before reaching for a bottle.

Flipped the cap, he squeeze some of it in his hand, showing it to Bucky. “Let me?” he asked.

It was easier to say yes, so with a small nod his eyes slipped closed. A part of him was screaming ‘threat’, but as seemed to be the case where this man was involved, Bucky ignored it. He remained tense as Steve’s fingers wove through his hair, half expecting pain that never came. Strong fingers, worked the product into his scalp, slick fingers working across his neck and shoulder, and as the seconds ticked by, Bucky couldn’t help but relax in the sensation, letting himself drift. He couldn’t remember at time like this, having felt like this. He wanted more. Needed more, and Steve had given him free rein.

Surging forward, Bucky pressed his mouth against Steve’s, pulling back with a frown as Steven yelped.

With a sheepish smile and shrug, Steve said, “Sorry, the handle.”

Bucky maneuvered them so it wasn’t digging into Steve’s back and closed the scant distance between them again. This time, he scraped his teeth along Steve’s jaw, tugging at his earlobe while he shoved his thigh between Steve’s spread legs.

“Bucky, don’t tease.”

Dropping his head, he bit hard at the tendon where shoulder met neck, enjoying the sound that it tore from Steve’s throat. Fingers digging into the muscles of Steve’s waist, Bucky’s hips rolled as he fuck up against him. He wanted to be closer, wanted more, but he didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to think and lose this moment by letting reality intrude. Here, in this, he could forget.

Steve’s hands grabbed his ass, pulling fractionally closer him closer, angling his hips, so they lined up, and it was Bucky’s turn to moan. Desperately he caught Steve’s mouth with his, needing the taste of him. They rutted against each other, hard and frantic, straining for release, and when finally it hit, Bucky wished it could go on forever. 

It couldn’t last of course, and with the pleasant jolts still coursing through him, Bucky found himself suddenly exhausted, the effect of too much stress and not enough sleep, his grip on Steve keeping him upright more than his desire to stay that way. 

Yelping as the hot water suddenly ran out, they quickly rinsed themselves off before scrambling out and scrubbing dry. Bucky tensed as Steve raised a towel to his hair. He knew there was no threat here, but that’s how he’d been programed, to see the treat in anything. It was hard to ignore. Closing his eyes, he drew a shuddering breath, forcing himself to remain still as Steve ran the towel over his hair.

“Bucky—” 

“I’m tired,” Bucky said, pulling away abruptly and exiting into the small living space. He didn’t want to talk. Not about what he was sure Steve was going to stay. 

Following him, Steve said, “Okay, okay. We can sleep.”

“I’ll take the couch.” Bucky didn’t have to look to know that Steve wore a wounded face, but he couldn’t, not now, maybe not ever. Bending to pick up his hastily discarded clothes, he couldn’t help his reaction when Steve’s hand closed over his wrist. 

But Steve had expected it and caught his flying fist. “You’re hurt.”

Bucky glanced down at the already healing knife wound, a small trickle of blood curling down his arm. He gave a careless shrug. “I’ll live.” 

“Let me—”

“I said it’s nothing.” Bucky snapped as he jerked away, suddenly feeling trapped. He needed to leave, he need to find— he didn’t know. Bucky didn’t protest as Steve pulled his shirt from shaking fingers. He didn’t know why he was acting like this, what he was feeling. He didn’t _know_. 

“Come on. You can borrow a pair of my pajamas. They should fit.” 

“I need—” 

Steve bent, rummaged through his body armor, and finding the knife, slipped it into Bucky’s hand. 

Bucky’s fingers curled loosely around the grip, and raised a brow at Steve’s complete lack of worry. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d tried to kill him, and Bucky had proven that he had no problem using it on him. Taking the offered pants, Bucky slipped into them, and turned towards the couch. 

Spinning he caught the item thrown at him, knife raised to attack before he realized it was just a pillow. “Punk.” He didn’t know why he said it, but it brought a smile to Steve’s face.

“Jerk.” 

Bucky frowned at him, wondering at the affection, at the familiarity. There was something there, something he couldn’t remember. It was beginning to grow annoying. Stretching out the worn couch and tucking the knife under his pillow, Bucky watched as Steve pulled out a book and pen before leaning back against the headboard of the bed. 

“Get some sleep. I’m just going to draw for a bit.” 

Bucky had read that. That Steve liked to draw. Steve wasn’t looking at him, but Bucky knew he had the other man’s full attention. It should have kept him wired, made him tense, but he found himself drifting off to the scratching of pen against paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have most of the next part written, but I'm sick, so it might not get posted till the weekend. The next bit will be from Steve's POV. 
> 
> This isn't going to have a quick fix. There are going to be ups and downs. I want to do this subject matter justice.
> 
> Please let me know what you think (or if you find a stray typo), and thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

As the picture took shape, Steve’s strokes faltered. He could draw Bucky’s face from memory, did it regularly, so he would never forget, knew his smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when his was happy, knew his frown, and his tears. But this was a Bucky he’d never drawn before, not even like during the war when Bucky hid behind half-smiles that never quite reached his eyes, and dropped when he thought Steve wasn’t looking. Even in sleep there was a tension in his frame, in his features, that spoke volumes, that told a story that held horrors even Steve couldn’t imagine.

The hair was obviously different, and Steve might have liked it, if it wasn’t a show of his lack of care. The way he’d reacted as Steve had washed his hair, as though he didn’t understand the concept, made Steve’s fist curl dangerously around his pen and wish he had a punching bag available. The scars, there were so many of them, and it made Steve’s gut twist. He wanted to commit each to memory, but he knew, especially now, that Bucky would not welcome the scrutiny, the touch.

The metal arm was as fascinating as it was horrifying. He’d spoken to Tony briefly about it before he’d left, and Tony had seemed captivated by the idea, that the technology had been around for decades and was so much more advanced than they had even now. Steve had had to remind him that Bucky wasn’t going to be his experiment, to which Tony had laughed, brushing it off before he’d hung up.

Steve couldn’t quite believe that Bucky was here in this dingy apartment sleeping on the broken down couch. To have him turn up in his shower the way he did had been a pleasant surprise, especially when it became apparent just how tired he really was. Steve wasn’t sure if he was more shocked by the fact that Bucky had fallen asleep so quickly or that he was here at all, had voluntarily sought him out, had trusted him to if not protect him while he slept, then at least to be near him.

Steve was reminded of the mangy cat that he’d convinced Bucky to befriend with him at the orphanage. Ginger, he’d called her, all skin and bones when they’d first found her, and definitely not trusting of humans as the scratches that they’d both received attested. And slowly she’d come to seek them out for attention and affection and the occasional scrap that they could spare, but he’d known better than to ever assume that she was theirs.

Steve’s focus switched from his drawing back to Bucky when he heard his breathing pick up. Steve fought the urge to get up and touch Bucky, to save him from the nightmares that sent his heart racing out of control and tightened his muscles, but he hated to say that this wasn’t the first time he’d been witness to Bucky’s nightmares and knew that waking him from such a state was a bad idea. Bucky, who’d always been the strong one, always been the one to take care of Steve and seen him at his weakest again and again, couldn’t stand to be seen the same way, even though Steve saw no weakness in it. The horrors that his men had been through, that all of them, everyone in the war went though, it wasn’t weakness to be affected by that.

After Steve had rescued Bucky from Schmidt, it had been a rare night that he’d slept all the way through. Steve had hated it, but there had always been too much to do, never enough time, and the few times Steve had tried to talk about it, Bucky had brushed it off, been embarrassed, defensive, threatened to find someplace else to sleep, so Steve had made it his duty to watch over him despite how much he hated seeing Bucky in such obvious distress. Steve had figured someday, after the war, they’d talk about it. But that had never happened. But maybe now, someday, anything for Bucky.

As much as it hurt to watch, Steve couldn’t wake him, didn’t care about the threat to himself, but to Bucky himself, afraid he’d run, that he’d disappear and never resurface. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t sleep, afraid that Bucky would slip away, that he’d wake up and that everything would have been a dream. This world, this century, was strange and not what he’d expected, and as selfish as it was, he didn’t want to go back to doing it alone. It didn’t matter that this Bucky was different. Steve was different too. That Bucky was here, _alive_ , meant everything to him.

Steve’s thoughts finally moved to the dark horse in the room: Bucky’s memories. Twice Bucky had had the chance to killed him, and twice he’d hesitated, let Steve live. That he’d pulled Steve from the Potomac, saved him from certain death, had given Steve hope. Bucky had remembered him, right? Bits and pieces, Natasha had said when she’d tried to explain the parts of Bucky’s file that he didn’t understand.

Bucky’s file hadn’t had much on the early days, had nothing except theories really : traumatic brain injury, brain damage, amnesia, brainwashing, cognitive reprogramming, and worse, each something that left Steve more nauseated than the next. Natasha was no expert, but she’d known people with brain damage before, said that each person was different, that memory loss was a tricky thing. However, she had said not to get his hopes up, not to expect him to remember everything.

Steve was okay with that. He didn’t need everything. If Bucky wanted, if Bucky asked, Steve would be happy to fill in the blanks that he could. He couldn’t help but feel that was a long way off.

Steve still had hope, had followed Bucky in the selfish hope that his presence would spark something in Bucky’s memories again. Proving long ago that he’d do anything for Bucky, there had been no question that he’d follow.

Bucky’s reticence at first hadn’t been unexpected, but Steve couldn’t walk away. It was the one thing he couldn’t do. He’d certainly never expected Bucky’s advances. Even if the situation hadn’t been one he’d prefer, Steve couldn’t say no to Bucky. And Steve had _liked_ the wrongness of the situation. It had been no hardship to give him pleasure, had been a heady feeling to know that he was making Bucky feel so good. Reality couldn’t be avoided though, and he couldn’t help the anger and pain that Bucky had seemed so unaware how good it could be. But it was validation, proof that everything wasn’t for naught.

When they were young, Steve had never really given much thought to being with a man until after they’d moved out of the orphanage. They’d been searching for a one bedroom place because they couldn’t afford more, and sharing a bed especially in winter had been a common thing. They’d never considered the response they’d get when two men were seeking that type of apartment. Bucky had been his best friend, and Steve had never let himself consider the possibility of there being anything more.

That had changed after they’d gotten their first place. It had been a rough neighborhood, full of ne’er-do-wells everyone had said, instead of admitting it was full of gays. Steve had always found men and women equally attractive, but had always assumed that one day he’d end up with a nice dame. That’s how it was supposed to be.

Steve had seen what happened to the men who were open about liking other men, had stepped into a fight on more than one occasion. Bucky had been so mad after the first time, so scared like Steve had never seen him, all but shaking with emotion.

“There’s nothing worse than a fag in some people’s minds. If people thought—” Bucky’s face had crumpled. “I can’t lose you.”

Things had been different after that, and it had been Steve who made the first move, kissing Bucky. At first Bucky had seemed to enjoy it, kissing back. Then he’d pulled away, his brow creased with apparently pain. Steve didn’t see him for two days, and spent most of the time wondering if he’d ruined the best thing he’d ever had.

When Bucky had showed up on the morning of the third day, looking sheepish and offering a bedraggled flower that had seen better days, Steve couldn’t help but laugh as he was pulled close for a kiss.

The first time they’d tried to have sex Steve had had an asthma attack, and Bucky had barely been willing to touch him for a month. It had been hell. They’d made it work a few times, but it had always been hit or miss. He’d been sick so often and his lungs just hadn’t been strong enough.

Steve had pushed him into seeing other people, knowing that he was holding Bucky back. They’d fought about it once when Bucky had come home drunk, smelling of a woman.

“You said it was okay.” Bucky had said when Steve had refused to share the bed unless he’d washed first.

“Because I knew I wasn’t enough for you!” For a long time Steve had believed that.

“You were all I ever wanted!” Despite Bucky’s conviction, even now Steve wasn’t sure if he could trust the words.

They hadn’t spoken of it again, but Bucky’s dates had gradually tapered off.

Then after the serum, there’d been the war and with is brought stress and not enough sleep and sleeping too close to others with little chance for privacy. The few times they’d managed, Bucky had been rough, and Steve had loved it. Bucky though, he’d been a little freaked out.

It’s not that either of them had been really naïve about some of the more risqué sexual practices given the neighborhood where they’d lived. At six foot five without her heels, Miss Margaret hadn’t been someone they could say no to when they’d passed her shop. That night had been educational to say the least. 

It had been another thing that they were supposed to talk about after the war, another thing than had never happened.

A sudden sound caught Steve’s attention, drawing him from his thoughts, and it was all the warning he had before the windows busted. Steve surged to his feet, wishing he had his shield as Bucky rolled off the couch into a low crouch, awake and alert, knife in hand.

Glancing at Bucky for a moment as the men poured into the room, they shared a small nod. This was a dance they’d done before.

Grabbing the lamp, Steve hurled it at the first gunman who fell back still shooting, causing another man to yell as he was caught in the fire. 

The room exploded into motion.

“They want him alive, you idiot!” one man shouted as Bucky took a knife across the ribs.

“Behind you,” Steve warned as a man appeared behind Bucky, syringe in hand.

The man never saw the fist that sent him flying.

Whoever this was, whoever put this plan into motion, seemed to have taken the numbers approach. Hoping that by throwing enough men at them, they might have a chance.

They didn’t. 

A kick to the back of the knee sent Steve sprawling, and he was suddenly lost under a pile of bodies. Taking a deep breath, centering himself, Steve surged upward with a shout.

Bucky pulled a bull of a man off him, and Steve closed his eyes against the sudden spray of blood.

The rest was a blur of movement and sound and blood.

Long minutes later, they both stood among a sea of bodies, breathing hard from the rush of adrenaline.

Each of them were covered in things Steve would rather not think about, bringing back memories of a war Steve would have rather forgotten. Steve watched silently as Bucky began to examine the bodies, searching for something.

Steve’s fingers curled into a fist as he resisted the urge to reach out and touch Bucky, to reassure himself that his wounds were superficial. He didn’t seem to be in pain, but Steve could see a number of cuts, knew that some of the blood was actually Bucky’s.

Bucky straightened, a small device in his hand.

“What’s—” Steve broke off as he moved closer, getting a better look at the object. He’d seen Natasha use something similar a few times now. “A tracker.” Terror gripped him tightly, causing his stomach to fall. He knew how dangerous those, how very easy it was to find someone unless they were well shielded. “We need to get you—” Steve paused as Bucky’s hand gripped his arm, the touch a surprise.

A small prick had Steve glancing down at the now empty syringe that had been hidden in Bucky’s other hand. As his knees buckled and his vision clouded, Steve couldn’t help the surge of betrayal, wondered if the remorse he saw on Bucky’s face was real or imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well Steve turned out to be a deep thinker in this part. 
> 
> If you're interested Steve actually did canonically live in what was a gay neighborhood: http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html
> 
> Again thank you for reading, and I'd love to hear what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

Kicking a body out of the way, Bucky lowered Steve to the floor before going in search of Steve’s phone. Finding it surprisingly unharmed if a bit bloodied amongst the chaos, Bucky flipped it open and tisked at the lack of security. He’d have to teach Steve better than that.

Bucky froze at the implication.

Shaking himself, Bucky quickly opened the phonebook. The list was small, smaller than he’d expected to find, and the names meant nothing to him. He called the most recently dialed number, not shocked when it was answered before a full ring passed.

There was no greeting, not that Bucky expected one, but he knew there was someone on the other end of the line, waiting. “Captain Rogers needs an extraction. It would be best to hurry.”

“Buc—”

Bucky hung up before the woman could say it. The name, it was hard enough to handle when Steve said it, still nearly impossible to believe despite the evidence to the contrary. He wasn’t prepared to hear it from others. Tossing the phone down, he turned back towards Steve’s prone form, indecisiveness warring within him.

When he’d come here, Bucky hadn’t had a plan, hadn’t meant to seek Steve out, and certainly hadn’t meant to sleep, not in the open, not with someone else in the room. Yet despite it all, the scant few hours of sleep he’d managed were the best he could ever remember having. Not even the attack could wash that away.

However, Bucky realized he’d gotten complacent as he’d searched the bodies. Top asset that he was, of course, HYDRA would have fitted him with a tracker or two. He should have expected it, should have seen it coming, had a strange feeling that it wasn’t the first time, but he hadn’t.

At no point had he been worried about himself, but he had worried. That was new, worrying, worrying about someone else. Worrying about Steve.

Seeing the abandoned syringe, Bucky hadn’t hesitated as his fingers had curled around it. At the look of betrayal on Steve’s face, Bucky had told himself it was the right thing to do, that Steve wouldn’t have let him go on his own. Placating himself was new too. Bucky wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Finally Bucky pulled himself away. He quickly wiped away the worst of the gore before pulling on his clothes and snagging a gun. He didn’t go far, just into the shadows of the rooftop across the street. The wait was a short one, less than twenty minutes before two agents showed up. Bucky recognized the black man as the flying man he’d fought on the hellicarrier. The redheaded woman was strangely familiar, though Bucky had no memories of her. Something else that had been taken from him.

Despite the fact that he was carefully hidden, she stopped to stare out one of the broken out windows, her eyes unerringly locked on his position. Out of the two, she was the biggest threat.

Bucky watched until they had Steve loaded into the back of van, until it pulled out of sight before finally leaving.

It was in his best interest to put distance between himself and this place. Both HYDRA and SHIELD knew it, were far too close for comfort. The worst of the fighting between the two factions must have died down if HYDRA had found the resources to seek him out and SHIELD had gotten here so quickly, though Bucky imagined that given the type of asset Steve was, tht SHIELD was never far from him. Bucky had done his best to erase the traces of himself, but the secret must have been buried deep and reached further than he could find with his limited resources. 

Bucky didn’t have a destination in mind as he moved, didn’t have a plan until he stumbled across a clinic late one night. It was easy to break in, easy to find the x-ray machine. It took a little imagination, maneuvering, and aim to take the x-rays as the button was across the room, but he made it work.

He’d seen his own scans and x-rays before, but he’d never paid them much attention, never examined them because they’d never mattered, not like this. He traced the lines created by the wires leading away from his metal arm, the way they snaked across his chest, towards his spine, and into his skull. It was almost beautiful in a macabre way.

While he couldn’t be sure, he didn’t think that was what he was looking for so he moved on. And finally Bucky found it. A small spec near his pelvis and hip. Twisting to take an x-ray at another angle, he frowned at what he’d found. He’d hoped he’d be lucky, that it would be someplace that that he could cut out himself without too much damage. However, this was set deep and he knew enough about anatomy to know there was a whole bundle of nerves and arteries in the area that would it both very dangerous and very stupid to attempt on his own.

Destroying the x-rays he didn’t need, and taking those he did, Bucky carefully cleaned up after himself. The only thing to mark that someone had been there would be the missing films, but that would be easy enough to write off.

In the next town over, Bucky pulled out the laptop that had been in the car he’d stolen. Bucky needed a doctor, but not just any would do. Luckily for Bucky there didn’t seem to be many medical doctors who were also experts in neurocybernetics. Unluckily for Bucky, he’d just killed most of them.

Plugging in the flashdrive that contained the information that he’d obtained, Bucky cross-referenced the names of those still alive with the files he’d found. Most were mentioned at least once as a possible future asset to their team. The name Sasha Vladimirskiy was mentioned most, a twin amputee himself and expert in cutting edge cybernetics and experimental neurointegration.

HYDRA had apparently been set to court the man before HYDRA’s involvement with SHIELD had been revealed to the world. Despite the risks, Bucky decided that this was the person he needed. HYDRA never did anything in halves. There were always plans within plans, contingency behind contingency because they learned well from their failures.

Bucky knew that there was likely a tracker in his arm, something that he’d never find, not even with the information he’d gathered. And already he could feel the sluggishness from the hasty repairs, the lack of his usual fluidity and dexterity, the small delay in movements. Bucky knew it would only get worse.

Wishing he’d had more time, Bucky knew he was pushing the odds with the two days that he watched the man, learned his habits and routine.

And when finally the doctor was alone, the rest of the staff gone for the evening, Bucky made his move.

Gun in hand, he entered the man’s office. “Please, Doctor Vladimirskiy. Do remain seated until I tell you otherwise.”

The doctor remained wisely silent, but didn’t appear to recognize Bucky as he glanced from the gun to his arm.

“I am in need of your expertise.”

“I do not take kindly to threats. Perhaps you can put away your weapon, and we can talk like rational gentleman, Mr…?”

Bucky ignored both suggestions. “I have a tracker in my hip which you will remove before finding and removing the one in my arm. Then you will repair any damage you can find.”

“And what makes you think that I would do this?” 

Bucky closed the distance between them, pressing the gun against the man’s temple. “You value your life.”

“If you kill me, I am of no use to you.”

Bucky gave a careless shrug. “There are other doctors.”

Vladimirskiy paled finally seeming to realize how precarious his situation was. “Very well.” He reached for the phone. “Just let me call my sta—”

Fingering tightening on the trigger, Bucky said, “Touch that phone and you’re a dead man. You will do this alone, and you will do it now.”

“I do not have the equipment read—” 

“There is a fully stocked operating room down the hall as your staff leaves it every day.” Bucky nudged him with a gun. “Move.” 

The doctor rose to his feet and Bucky made note of the prosthetics, top of the line, but still so very inferior compared to his own limb. 

The trip was a short one, and Bucky pulled out the x-rays that he’d taken, giving them to the doctor to examine before he sat on the bed. Vladimirskiy studied each carefully before he opened small fridge and pulled out a vial.

“No drugs,” Bucky ordered as the doctor reached for a syringe.

“Ever with these x-rays I can’t be certain of the exact location. This will be exploratory and likely extremely painful.”

“No.” 

“At least consider a neural block.”

“No.”

“Very well.” Vladimirskiy did not look happy, but he pulled on a set of scrubs before washing his hands.

As he did so, Bucky stripped out of his clothes. The doctor hesitated for a moment as he turned back around, clearly not expected his nudity, but Bucky had long since gotten over any modesty he might have had. 

Vladimirskiy gaze dropped to the gun that was still aimed at him. “Can you at least put that away. If my hand slips—”

“Rest assured that if you cut an artery, I can still kill you before I bleed out.” 

The doctor’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but he didn’t protest again.

“You must lie on your stomach.”

“No.”

“The extra damage I will do if I cut into you from the front is unwarranted. At least lay on your side.” 

That Bucky could do, and he twisted to do so, watching as as he scrubbed the area down.

Bucky fought the instinctive urge to shoot as the doctor reached for the scalpel. He barely felt the first cut, the pressure and drag through his flesh. There was a heat that wasn’t quite pain, but it increased as the doctor cut deeper. Bucky watched the flow of blood curve down his thigh.

Gritting his teeth against a suddenly painful cut, Bucky saw white and it was only strength of will that stopped his finger from convulsing on the trigger.

As the seconds ticked by with no motion from the doctor, Bucky asked, “Is there a problem?”

Hesitating for a moment, Vladimirskiy finally answered, “It appears the device is attached to your sciatic nerve.”

“So remove it.”

“It is not that simple. If I am not careful, then you could be paralyzed in this leg.”

“Then you’d best be careful.” 

The doctor did something that felt like his entire leg had been dipped in acid, and it was only the resulting spasms of pain that made him jerk and miss shooting the doctor. 

Breathing through the pain, Bucky opened his mouth to ask the doctor what the fuck when he noticed the pale man was holding something, the tracker, and he let his head drop. 

Somehow the layers of stitches needed to close the wound was more painful than the entire process prior, or maybe Bucky had passed his tolerance of pain. Either way, by the time Vladimirskiy finished, Bucky was pale and sweating, biting back on the swell of nausea at the back of his throat. 

“Give it here,” Bucky demanded, metal palm out.

When the small device was placed in it, Bucky’s fingers curled tight, ensuring that the tracker was good and destroyed. 

“If you are prepared we can move onto arm,” Vladimirskiy said as he cleaned the area and slipped out of his gloves. “As this is clearly not something I have any experience with, I hope you can provide me some guidance.”

“Hand me my pants.” The ache in Bucky’s hip said he didn’t want to move anytime soon, but he knew he’d have to sooner rather than later. Pulling out the thumb drive that he’d transferred the pertinent information to, he handed it to the doctor. 

Plugging it into a laptop on the counter, Vladimirskiy’s eyes widened as though he’d found the fountain of youth. “This is amazing,” he breathed in awe. “What they’ve done here could revolutionize the world. 

“Have your party later,” Bucky growled annoyed.

“Yes, yes. Just give me a few minutes. There is just so much information to go over.”

Finally the doctor turned back to him, fingers reverently tracing down the metal in a way that was decidedly creepy and made his skin crawl. Bucky raised the gun again to remind him of the situation. “It’s not a toy. You have a job to do.”

“Yes. I apologize. It’s just so beautiful.”

“And that’s not a creepy thing to hear at all.” Bucky said as the doctor pressed and metal slid open. 

“Ah, yes. There it is. This should just take a moment and—”

Bucky’s body jerked as electricity sparked across his nerves and darkness took him.

His hearing returned first.

“—am certain. Yes, I did as you said. No, it should not be a problem.”

Then his sense of smell, his nose wrinkling at the scent of burnt flesh.

His fingers twitched, tightening their grip on his gun. 

Idiot. 

Opening his eyes, Bucky turned and fired. The doctor never even saw him before he dropped to the floor dead. 

Looking down at his left arm, he frown as his fingers barely twitched when he tried to curl them into a fist. Fuck.

Rising to his feet, Bucky ignored the screaming pain in his hip and shoulder as he pulled on his clothes with some difficulty, making sure to grab the thumb drive on his way out. There was no time, no way of knowing how much time he had, how close they were. 

With trembling fingers, Bucky managed to hotwire a car and drove two towns over before abandoning it. Pulling out the prepaid phone from his pocket he turned it on, and dialed the number he’d memorized. Before there’d always been a home base, someplace to return to, and now he had nothing, no place to go, no place to relax. He couldn’t run anymore, not like this. This wasn’t something he could fix on his own.

Steve picked up on the second ring. “Hello.” When there was no answer. “Who is this?” And finally. “Bucky?”

Bucky fought to get his mouth to cooperate, to say the words. “I fucked up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't what I'd originally planned, but I think it'll be fun. ;) My brain kept demanding sex, but it looks like that'll have to wait to the next part.
> 
> I'm open to Steve/Bucky prompts on [my Tumblr](http://heeroluva.tumblr.com). If they're related to this fic, I'll consider them, but if they're not, I'll try to write at least a drabble in response. 
> 
> As always any feedback is appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

If the military had taught Steve one thing, it was to take sleep where he could find it. Give him five minutes, and he could get four good minutes of sleep. Yet despite his ability to sleep anywhere at any time, he found himself unable to now even though he was exhausted, his thoughts roiling. Dr. Elaina Chekov, having been vetted as someone he could trust, someone whom Natasha had entrusted with her life many times, had long since dozed off beside him along with most of the passengers on the plane.

Bucky’s call had made Steve’s guts twist with panic. The last thing he’d expected was a call from him, for Bucky to ask for his help. Waking in a medical bed with Sam by his side had been far too familiar. When Natasha had informed him that Bucky had dropped off that radar again, that they were on their way back to the US at Fury’s insistence, Steve had threatened to jump from the plane then and there if they hadn’t turned the plane around and taken him back. Natasha hadn’t seemed impressed, but in the end, they’d touched down in Moscow.

Waking up without Bucky there, remembering the betrayal of what Bucky had done had been a blow. He hadn’t been angry, not really, but it had been a blow, a painful one, a familiar one because it was what Bucky had always done: run, try to protect Steve from the worst of the world. Bucky was the only one who’d never looked down on Steve for his size, who’d never seen him as weak or less capable, who had never pitied him. But Bucky had seen a goodness in Steve, said that he was too innocent for this world, and tried to shield Steve from the worst of it. Even then Bucky had rarely tried to stop Steve’s fights, but he’d always been there to help when Steve needed it.

Bucky had failed, of course, long before the war had come, though through no fault of his own. There was just too much evil in the world to hide from. Bucky had realized it too, even as he’d tried to hide the worst of himself from Steve during the war. Bucky hadn’t realized then that Steve wasn’t so different from him, had done the same and worse. He wasn’t innocent, hadn’t been for a long time, had done horrible things, but he could still try to be a good man, a kind man who strove to do the right thing. Bucky inspired that in him.

It gave Steve hope that even now, as damaged as he was, that at some level Bucky was still fundamentally Bucky. Even before the phone call, that hope couldn’t wash away the worry that Bucky was out there alone. Steve knew that at any time he had the resources to bring Bucky in, to bring Bucky home, but he knew if he did that he was no better than HYDRA. He knew it had to be Bucky’s choice, and he wouldn’t take that away from him, not after everything they’d stolen from him. A little pain on his part was a small price to pay.

Steve was selfish enough that he couldn’t go back to a world without Bucky, not after knowing that he was out there and alive. But he could wait, hope that Bucky would remember, would seek him out on his own. The phone call, when it came, had set his heart racing, Bucky’s words, the hitch in his voice when he said them, had chilled Steve to the core.

Bucky had never been one to ask for help, and here it was. It was sobering though when Steve realized that he was the only one that Bucky could call. HYDRA had taken everything from him. And yet despite all that was done to him, Bucky had chosen to trust Steve. It was a trust he couldn’t break.

A series of phone calls to friends in high places had set everything into action. Steve was on a plane to Yakutsk with Dr. Chekov that was due to land in less than an hour, and Tony was scheduled to land seven hours after them. It had already been fourteen hours since Bucky had called, given him an address where he would meet Steve.

Steve was a man of action and the wait was killing him. Any possible number of things could have gone wrong. Bucky had been unforthcoming with the extent of the damage done to him, just saying that he needed a doctor that could be trusted and that his arm was damaged. Someone else had betrayed Bucky.

He must have actually dozed off at some point because a hand on his arm had him tensing, preparing to fight. Seeing the straight face of Dr. Chekov, Steve forced himself to relax.

“We will be landing soon, Mr. Rogers,” Dr. Chekov said with a heavy Russian accent.

“Steve, please,” he said.

She did not smile, but nodded. “Steve. If you insist. If we’re to dispense with formalities, you may call me Elaina.”

Steve nodded in return. “Elaina.” She reminded him of an older Natasha, having a will of steel and a sharp tongue that he couldn’t help but feel hid a wicked sense of humor.

They landed shortly after, and Steve was happy that they didn’t need to go through customs again, not having the patience to wait any longer when Bucky was so close.

“I will meet you there. First I must gather the necessary supplies.”

Steve hesitated for a moment, his need to find Bucky warring with his suspicion. In the end, his need won out. “Please, be quick, ma’am.”

Steve’s Russian was bad at the best of times, so he was thankful for the GPS that Natasha had provided him. He followed it into a warehouse district near the Lena River, winding through the mazes of buildings until he finally arrived at the address. It was no different than the other buildings around it, the gate padlocked and dark inside. Steve didn’t think twice about breaking the lock and entering, finding himself in a large space filled with pallets and machinery.

It didn’t seem like a safe place to go to ground, but if the events of the past months had taught Steve anything, it was that looks could be deceiving. Searching the place, Steve finally ended up in the office. He eyed the bookshelf for a moment before pushing it aside. The door that was revealed made Steve snort. HYDRA was at least predictable in this.

There was no more time to waste. The door revealed a stairwell, which went deep before revealing a long hallway, lights flickering to life as he approached. In the silence of the space, Steve could hear breathing and followed it to its source. The room stayed dark, and Steve struggled to find a light. Finally, he found a pull chain hanging, and the single light bulb weakly illuminated the room.

Steve was at Bucky’s side instantly, kneeling beside him on the pallet. He was covered in sweat, face twisted in pain, his right hand knotted into a fist, his left laying unnaturally still, the whole limb falling strangely against his side.

Smelling blood and the telltale odor of infection, Steve didn’t hesitate to tug at Buck’s clothes. Steve frowned at the well stitched by clearly infected wound he found on Bucky’s hip, the wound red and swollen, pulling angrily at the stitches that hadn’t been ripped open, a mostly dry train of blood curling down to stain the pallet.

Steve grabbed a bottle of water from one of the supply laden shelves and poured it over the wound, giving a silent apology as Bucky flinched away from even that. He’d seen men lose limbs on the battlefield from lesser wounds, and while Steve knew it wasn’t that bad yet, he didn’t want Bucky to have to go through that again even if he wouldn’t be alone this time.

Sweeping Bucky’s matted hair back from his face, Steve said, “Bucky, can you hear me?” There was no response. He shook him, and pulled back his eyelids, but Bucky was out for the count.

The echo of footsteps had Steve reaching for Bucky’s gun, and edging to peek out the door. Finding Elaina carrying a large bag, Steve relaxed marginally.

Steve took the bag as she entered.

“Wash your hands,” she ordered as she did at the small sink tucked in the corner of the room.

Steve did as she directed.

As she knelt by his side and examined him, Elaina said, “Has he shown any signs of awareness?”

Shaking his head, Steve said, “No, he hasn’t responded to me.”

“These fractal markings indicate he has been electrocuted recently,” Elaina said, motioning to the angry red lines that mixed with the scars on Bucky’s shoulder.

In his haste, Steve hadn’t even noticed the strange markings, and Steve pushed aside the surge of guilt. It wasn’t the time. Steve watched as she set up an IV before pulling out a small vial and syringe. “What’s that?”

“This is an antibiotic. I will also give him a painkiller and sedative.”

Frowning, Steve asked, “Why a sedative?”

“I must reopen this wound to clean it, and I believe it is in all of our best interests if he does not wake up while I do so.”

Steve tried assisting her before she shooed him away.

“You worry too much. Hold his hand, tell him he is not alone, he is safe.”

Steve didn’t argue, did as he was he was told, lacing his fingers loosely with Bucky’s, not flinching when he squeezed too hard. Maybe it was his imagination or wishful thinking, but Bucky seemed to relax marginally as Steve spoke to him, about anything and everything, inconsequential things, about the future, about the past, about how much he missed him, how much he wanted him back, that he’d do anything for him, anything he wanted.

“Steve.” Elaina’s voice interrupted his monologue.

Steve couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed about his feelings, about what she’d heard.

“I need you to brace his leg. The sedative isn’t working as well as I’d hoped, and if he moves, I could make the damage worse.”

“Where?”

Steve put his hands where she indicated, unable to look away as she cut at the stitches. Feeling the sudden tension in the muscles beneath his hands, he tightened his grip. Bucky’s fingers were suddenly there, curling around his wrist like a lifeline, and Steve drew a shuddering breath.

“The infection seems to be mostly on the surface, but it’s best to clean the entire wound. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. The worst of the damage seems to be self-inflicted, the result of too much movement too soon.”

Steve frowned at that, glancing up at Bucky’s face, the way it was still twisted in pain. He wanted nothing more than to take it upon himself, to never see that look on his face again.

Finally, long minutes, an eternity, later the wound was cleaned and restitched, and Steve felt like he could finally breathe again.

As Elaina finished the last of the cleaning, she said, “I want to keep it unbandaged for now, give it air. If it gets worse, let me know.”

“Where are you going?” Steve asked as she moved towards the door.

“To get some sleep. I’m sure this isn’t the only room that is supplied. I shall be close if you need me. Try to sleep yourself.”

Shrewd grey eyes locked with his and Steve couldn’t help but recall being chastised by the schoolmarm at the orphanage for getting into another fight, and Steve couldn’t help but nod though, he had no plan to do so, not with Bucky like this.

Steve settled himself into the space between the pallet and the wall, taking hold of Bucky’s hand. He had no plans to sleep, but he found himself relaxing. And after nearly two days his body and mind had other ideas.

“Aww, isn’t that sweet. And me without my camera.”

Steve’s eyes snapped opened at the words and the thud of something metal hitting the ground.

“Tony,” Steve said in way of greeting.

“Really, that’s all you have to say after I dropped everything to fly halfway across the world to help you against my doctor’s orders? You also owe Pepper big time.”

Steve rolled his eyes at Tony’s antics. “Thank you, Tony. How’s your heart?”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Better, thank you for asking.” Tony kneeled down beside Bucky, and began to examine his arm. “So this is my patient then?”

“Bucky Barnes, my best friend.”

“Don’t forget homicidal brainwashed assassin. And can we talk about the fact that he’s naked?”

“Tony…” Steve warned.

“I’m sure he’s lovely when he’s not trying to kill people.”

“Tony!”

“Yeah, yeah. Just remember whose fault it is if he goes on another killing spree.”

Steve bit down his agitation, knowing this was really just Tony being Tony, but it still hurt. And as much as he hated to admit it, Tony was right. Things could go horribly wrong. But he couldn’t dwell on that, not now. Not when he still had hope. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out the two flashdrives he’d found on Bucky. “There might be something you can use on one of these. I know he was collecting data.”

“And killing people for it.”

“They weren’t good people.”

“No, but are you sure he is? Is he worth all this? If it means saving an innocent, can you put a bullet in him?”

“It won’t come to that!”

“It might. You can’t be blind to that. We don’t know what was done to him, if it’s reversible. Can you live with the fact that the person you knew might be gone forever?”

“Bucky is worth everything. You’d do anything for Pepper.”

“That’s different. I love her.”

Steve couldn’t quite meet Tony’s eyes. It wasn’t shame, never shame, but he’d spent too long hiding it.

Tony was nothing if not observant. “What about Peggy?”

“I loved her. I would have married her.”

“And Bucky?”

This time Steve met his eyes. “Given the chance, I would have done the same.”

“Wow, Cap. I certainly wouldn’t have pegged you for bisexual.”

“It wasn’t something we talked about. Not back then, and now…”

“Relax, cap. I’d certainly be the last one to out someone.”

Steve recalled an article he’d read about Tony, about being outed by an old boyfriend who’d decided that the brief moment of stardom and small financial gain was worth it.

“Thank you.”

Tony shrugged one shoulder, seeming slightly embarrassed before turning to plug the USB stick into his laptop.

“That’s it? No more questions?” Steve couldn’t quite believe that Tony had given up so easily.

“Steve, I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t already made up my mind. You’re a friend. I don’t have many of those. I know how important they are. I just needed to hear why from you.”

“Tony...”

“Enough with the mushy stuff,” Tony said, not looking up from his laptop. “Really, whoever designed this was ingenious, way ahead of their time. Almost better than me.”

“You can fix him?”

“I said ‘almost’. Of course I can fix him. Cap, you know this would have been easier if you’d just brought him to the Tower. My resources are limited here.”

“He said no SHIELD, that he wouldn’t go to the US right now. I’m skirting that just by having both you and the Elaina here. I won’t do what HYDRA did to him, I won’t take away his voice or devalue his choices.”

“You’re very loyal.” 

Steve stared pointedly at Tony. 

Tony ignored him as he turned back towards Bucky and cracked his knuckles before reaching towards the case he’d dropped when he’d gotten here. Pressing a button, it unfolded into a mini-workbench full of tools that Steve couldn’t imagine the use of.

Steve watched silently as Tony worked, watched as Tony pulled something out of Bucky’s arm and set it on a the bench.

“JARVIS run a scan on this.”

“Of course, sir.” Seconds ticked by. “Scans indicate that it is a tracking advice. Should I dispose of it for you, sir?”

“It’s all yours, JARVIS.”

Steve looked on in fascination as the piece smoked and popped before melting.

“Think I found another one, JARVIS.”

“You would be correct, sir.”

“You know what to do.”

“Of course, sir.”

The process was fascinating, and Steve wondered how many people had ever had the chance to see Tony work like this. He wished he had his sketchbook on him. He watched as Tony’s ministrations made each joint curl and flex, the way Bucky’s fingers fisted and loosened. It was slightly creepy in a way, to think that Tony had so much control over a part of Bucky.

“Think I’m almost d—” Tony broke off as strong metal fingers wrapped around his neck.

Steve was instantly in motion, pulling at Bucky, but his metal arm was stronger than him. “Bucky, you’re safe. It’s Steve. This is Tony, a friend. He’s just trying to help. He won’t hurt you. Please, Bucky.”

Bucky’s fingers loosened minutely, enough for Steve to pull him free, and Tony feel back coughing. Bucky turned slowly, his eyes unfocused, and Steve had a flash to another time and another place as Bucky said, “Steve,” as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

Then Bucky’s eyes closed again and Steve laid him back out as Elaina appeared in the door.

“Mr. Stark, do you require medical attention?”

Tony’s fingers brushed against the already forming bruises on his neck as he coughed again, his voice rough. “No, no. I’m good. Seems like he’s good too.” Tony looked at Steve, a tight smile on his face. “And here you doubted me.”

“I never doubted you, Tony. And thanks. Really, it means a lot.”

“Anytime, buddy. Now I think that’s my cue to leave. If you need more help, you know where to find me. Though next time, I’d prefer not to find a metal hand around my neck.”

Steve couldn’t help his incredulous laugh. Mere minutes ago his life had been in danger and now he was laughing about it as though it meant nothing. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

As Tony left, Elaina moved forward to examine Bucky’s hip.

“He’s lucky he didn’t rip the stitches out again. The redness and swelling seems to have resided a bit. If he’s still showing continued improvement in the morning, I will take my leave.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you, Elaina.”

She smiled for the first time, and again Steve was reminded of Nastasha. Was there a blood relations there?

“Natasha does not have many friends. I would do this for no one else.”

Steve didn’t know what to say to that, and watched silently as Elaina turned and returned to the room that she’d claimed as her own. Steve looked down at their position and realized that Bucky was still half sprawled on top of him. Neither Tony nor Elaina had commented on it. Steve thought about moving, about changing positions, but decided that he quite liked where he was at. It had been so long since he’d been this close to Bucky, to anyone really.

It hadn’t been a lie when he’d told Natasha that she hadn’t been his first kiss since he’d woken from the ice. There had been good nights and not so good nights with others, but Steve had never felt that he could truly relax, not like this. He didn’t fight sleep when it took him because he knew that Bucky would be there when he awoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, the forces were against me, and I wasn't able to fit sex into this chapter... Hopefully the next one... 
> 
> I'm still open to Steve/Bucky prompts on [my Tumblr](http://heeroluva.tumblr.com) if anyone is interested... 
> 
> As always any feedback is appreciated!


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